Disney+ wades into the true crime pool with a retelling of one of the most notorious serial killers of the 1960s.
From June 14, 1962 to January 4, 1964, thirteen single women, between the ages of 19 and 85, were sexually assaulted in their apartments before being strangled with articles of clothing.
Dubbed the “Silk Stocking Murders,” the case left police scrambling until reporters Loretta McLaughlin (Kiera Knightly) and Jean Cole (Carrie Coon) connected the murders and dubbed the killer the Boston Strangler. “The city is, for some, glamorous, stimulating, prosperous,” says a radio reporter. “Only recently has it become dangerous.”
When we first meet McLaughlin she is an ambitious reporter for the Record-American newspaper stuck on the lifestyle desk. Her pitches for hard news stories, including one on three elderly victims of a mysterious killer, are brushed aside.
“I don’t see the interest,” says editor Jack MacLaine (Chris Cooper). “These are nobodies.”
When McLaughlin offers to work on the story in her spare time, MacLaine relents, but adds, “You’re still on the lifestyle desk.”
As the mysterious murderer continues to strike, McLaughlin recruits Cole, one of the few female reporters not working on the lifestyle desk, to expand the investigation. Together they fight against the blue wall of police silence, the sexism of the newsroom and the very real threat of violence at the hand of the man they are helping to expose.
“Boston Strangler” is a period piece that works on a couple of levels. It is, first and foremost, a journalism procedural along the lines of “She Said” or “Spotlight,” following the reporters and their investigation.
Unlike “The Boston Strangler,” the 1968 Tony Curtis big screen version of the story, which focused on the efforts of the police, this is a story of finding the story. McLaughlin and Cole methodically build the case that these murders are connected, and that they are likely the work of one person. Despite very real threats to their safety as they hone in on one suspect, they are driven by the door knocking, boots-on-the-ground passion for the work.
Just as important is the portrait of workplace culture it paints in regards to women in the newsroom. The era’s rampant sexism, inside the newsroom and out, suggested the two women not only lacked the skills to cover the story but that they were emotionally unequipped to be involved with the case. The real-life McLaughlin and Cole were pioneers at a time when most women in newsrooms were relegated to soft news, advice columns or fetching coffee for their editors.
In fine performances, Knightly and Coon both embody the tenacity it took to smash the glass ceiling and break the Boston Strangler story. McLaughlin kicks through the gender norms of the 1960s, shaping the future she wants for herself, professionally and personally. Coon, playing a character who had worked in newsrooms since the age of 18, is spirited and funny with a razor-sharp wit.
Although there are several upsetting scenes and descriptions of the victims, the movie wisely put its focus on McLaughlin and Cole, rather than the grisly details of the crimes. Unlike the awkwardly titled “Dahmer – Monster: The Jeffrey Dahmer Story,” “Boston Strangler” doesn’t feel exploitive in its retelling of the sensational story.
Given the popularity of true crime, the murder aspect of “Boston Strangler” is the hook, but the story is deepened by its portrait of the importance of journalism to uncover the truth, and the intrepid reporters who do the work, despite the consequences.
Director Noah Baumbach has made idiosyncratic movies in the past like “The Squid and the Whale,” “Margot at the Wedding” and “While We’re Young.” But his new film, “White Noise,” an adaptation of the 1985 novel of the same name by Don DeLillo, now playing in theatres before moving to Netflix in December, may be his quirkiest to date.
Adam Driver is Professor Jack Gladney, a middle-aged college lecturer whose life’s work is the study of Adolph Hitler’s rise to power. He is a superstar in the world of academia, and a loving father to the blended family he shares with elaborately coiffed wife Babette (Greta Gerwig). In his quiet moments, however, he is obsessed with mortality, afraid that he will outlive his wife, and be left alone.
Babette, or “Babo” as the family calls her, also has a secret. She’s been taking an experimental drug, one that makes her forgetful and furtive.
In the second of the film’s three act structure, the family’s day-to-day lives are turned upside down when a nearby railway accident unleashes a toxic cloud over their town. Forced to evacuate and take shelter from the “Airborne Toxic Event,” they hit the road, and, in new circumstances, cracks in the family structure are revealed.
The final sequence manages to both tie up loose ends while taking the story in a completely new and unexpected direction toward murder, mortality and moral turpitude.
There is much to enjoy in “White Noise.” Gerwig and Driver seem born to recite Baumbach’s dialogue, bringing dry humor to the ever-escalating situations the Gladneys find themselves in. Lines that wouldn’t necessarily read as amusing on the page are brought to life by the delivery of these two perfectly cast actors. A third act back-and-firth between them, a cleaning of the air scene, is masterfully played, poignant and peculiar at the same time.
Baumbach also nails the 1980s time period, in both style and attitude, sharpening the satire with a vintage look that could have been borrowed from any number of contemporaneous sitcoms or big screen comedies. Also, this may be the one and only movie that can cite “National Lampoon’s Vacation” and “Barry Lydon” as stylaistic inspirations.
The look elevates the hectic family scenes, with everyone speaking over one another, wandering in and out of frame, like a mix of Robert Altman and “Family Ties.”
But, and I wish there wasn’t a but, a lack of cohesion between the film’s three sections gives it a disjointed feel, almost as if you’re watching a trio of short films with the same cast and characters. The clear-eyed lucidity of the opening act drifts as the running time sneaks toward the end credits. Once the movie leans toward the spectacle of the “Airborne Toxic Event” it loses its way, valuing the unwieldy, bewildering consequences of Jack and Bobo’s existentialism over clarity.
There are funny, satiric, enjoyable moments and performances in “White Noise,” but the initial suburban satire loses its way, succumbing to the busy script’s white noise.
“Amsterdam,” a quirky new film starring John David Washington, Margot Robbie and Christian Bale and now playing in theatres, is a convoluted story fueled by everything from fascism and birding to murder and music. If there ever was an example of a film that could have benefitted from the KISS rule, Keep It Simple Silly, this is it.
The madcap tale begins in 1933 New York City. WWI vet Dr. Burt Berendsen (Christian Bale), once a Park Avenue physician, he now runs a downtown clinic where he caters to the needs of soldiers who came back from the war broken and in pain.
When Berendsen and his best friend, fellow vet and lawyer Harold Woodsman (John David Washington), are hired by Liz Meekins (Taylor Swift), the daughter of their beloved commanding officer, to ascertain the cause of his death, they are drawn into a murder mystery involving secret organizations, ultra-rich industrialists and a crusty Marine played by Robert DeNiro.
In a flashback to the final days of WWI, we learn their backstory and meet Valerie (Margot Robbie), a nurse who treats their wounds, physically and mentally. As a trio, they swear allegiance to one another during an extended bohemian get-a-way in Amsterdam, a city that becomes a metaphor for freedom and friendship.
Reviewing “Amsterdam” stings. The production is first rate, from Academy Award nominated director David O. Russell, to the a-list cast to the ambitious script that attempts to link events of the past to today’s headlines. But, and this is what stings, the film is definitely less than the sum of its parts.
From the off-kilter tone, part screwball, part deadly serious, to the glacial pacing, which makes the already long two-hour-and-fifteen-minute running time seem much longer, and the script, which casts too wide a wide net in hope of catching something compelling, “Amsterdam” flails about, lost in its own ambition. This is the kind of story, it’s easy to imagine, the Coen Brothers could make look effortless, but Russell does not stick the landing.
He does, however, forward some lovely ideas about embracing kindness and the full experience of being alive, but even those are muddied by the inclusion of heavy-handed, and not particularly original, warnings about domestic terrorism and authoritarianism. Ideas get lost in a sea of exposition and narration, that not even these interesting actors can bring to life.
There may be an interesting story somewhere within “Amsterdam,” but it is hidden, lost in the movie’s epic ambitions.
“The Many Saints of Newark,” the sprawling big-screen prequel to the iconic television series “The Sopranos,” feels more like a pilot for a new show than the origin story of one of television’s most famous families.
Broken into three parts, “The Many Saints of Newark,” uses narration, courtesy of Tony Soprano’s late associate Christopher Moltisanti (Michael Imperioli), to break down the movie’s interconnected story shards.
Firstly, there is Dickie Moltisanti (Alessandro Nivola), Soprano Family soldier, father of Christopher, cousin to Carmela Soprano, uncle to Tony. He’s hooked up, wily and impulsive but also treacherous. When his father, the slick sociopath ‘Hollywood Dick’ (Ray Liotta), returns from Italy with a new bride (Michela De Rossi), it triggers chaos in the Moltisanti family.
In Dickie’s orbit is Harold McBrayer (Leslie Odom Jr.), an African-American numbers runner for the Mob, galvanized by the 1967 Newark race riots to go out on his own and, finally, Tony Soprano, played by William Ludwig as a youngster, Michael Gandolfini, the late James Gandolfini’s son, as a teenager. As Dickie’s thirst for power spins out of control, he becomes a surrogate father to Tony, hoping to pass along something good to the impressionable younger man as a way to atone for his sins.
“The Many Saints of Newark” is vivid in its portrayal of the period. Covering roughly four years, from 1967 to 1971, it uses the turmoil of that time in American life as a backdrop for the explosive nature of Dickie’s world. That atmosphere of uncertainty makes up for a story that, despite some glorious moments, often feels rushed as it careens toward an ending that doesn’t mine the rich psychological landscape of these characters, which is what we expect from David Chase and “The Sopranos.”
The actors are game.
Nivola brings equal parts charisma, danger and depth to a flawed character who is the ringmaster to the action. Unlike many of the other characters, like the conniving Junior Soprano (Corey Stoll), henchman Paulie Walnuts (Blly Magnussen) or consigliere Silvio Dante (John Magaro), who come with eighty-six episodes of baggage, Dickie is new and can be viewed through fresh eyes.
Michael Gandolfini takes on the Herculean task of revisiting a character his father made one of the most famous in television history and brings it home by showcasing the character’s volatility and, more importantly, his vulnerability. He’s a troubled kid, on the edge of turning one way or the other, and even though we know how the story goes, Gandolfini’s performance suggests there is more to know about Tony Soprano.
If there is a complaint, it’s that both Tony and McBrayer, two of the main cogs that keep this engine running, get lost in “The Many Saints of Newark’s” elaborate plotting. Ditto for the female characters. Despite tremendous work from Vera Farmiga as Tony’s poisonous mother Livia and De Rossi as Dickie’s step-mom, the women often feel peripheral to the tale, in service only to the men’s stories.
“The Many Saints of Newark” brings with it high expectations but falls short of coming close to the greatness of its source material. “The Sopranos” broke new ground, changing the way gangster stories (and all sorts of other stories) were told on television. “The Many Saints of Newark” settles for less as an exercise in nostalgia.
Remember the Charles Atlas 97-pound-weakling ads that used to run in the back of comic books? After a mild-mannered guy gets sand kicked in his face he transforms from “chump into a champ.” “The Art of Self-Defense,” a new dark comedy starring Jesse Eisenberg, blows this premise up to absurd proportions for the big screen.
Eisenberg is accountant Casey Davies, a loner whose only friend is his dachshund. One night, on a dog food run to the store, Casey is randomly attacked by a group of motorcycle thugs. While he whimpers, they beat the living tar out of him, leaving him hospitalized for weeks. Upon recovery he considers buying a gun for self-defense but instead takes up karate at a local dojo run by a charismatic sensei (Alessandro Nivola). “This is your belt,” he says. “It is yours, and it’s sacred. There’ll be a fifteen-dollar charge to replace a lost belt.”
What Casey doesn’t know is that the dojo is not simply a place to learn to punch and kick, but a dark and dangerous gateway to trouble where students, like Henry (David Zellner) and Anna (Imogen Poots), are brainwashed and manipulated by a walking, talking exemplar of toxic masculinity. “From now on, you listen to metal. It’s the toughest music there is.”
“The Art of Self-Defense” is a satire that plays with the idea of manhood and what it means to be a “man.” In the twisted sensei’s opinion, the direct path to empowerment is through violence. Any dissenters are written off as “weak” and dealt with. It is that single-mindedness and decisiveness that draws Casey into the dojo’s macho world.
Writer-director Riley Stearns creates interesting characters. Sensei is a chauvinistic caricature, a cruel teacher who believes that, “guns are for the weak.” Casey is an outsider whose character arc swings from one extreme to the other. Nivola and Eisenberg are interesting foils for one another, although Stearns’s insistence on having his characters speak in an affected monotone wears thin, even if they are occasionally saying interesting things.
“The Art of Self-Defense” will be comparted to “Fight Club” for its look at the reasons why men behave the way they do. The two films share themes of loneliness, societal breakdown and emasculation but they take very different roads to self-actualization. Both share a broad sense of humour—“The Art of Defense’s” climax is as unfunny as it is unexpected—but where David Fincher’s film was a phantasmagoric fantasy, the newer film is mired in a drab, everyday realism that feels at odds with its jarring, absurdist message.
Every one of us processes grief differently. Most people know the five stages of grief—denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance—but “In Dust,” a dark comedy starring Matthew Broderick and Géza Röhrig, suggests there are a few phases missing from that list.Röhrig, the Hungarian actor best known as star of the Best Foreign Language Film Oscar winner “Son of Saul,” stars as Shmuel, an upstate New York Hasidic cantor distraught by the sudden passing of his wife Rivkah. Tormented by the thought that her ruach (soul) will not rest until she is turned to dust he becomes obsessed by the rate of her decomposition.
As I said, we all grieve differently.
His anguish pushes him to break religious law and seek guidance outside of his community. A casket salesman (Joseph Siprut), once he realizes Shmuel isn’t in the market to buy a casket, offers no help. “We don’t check their progress,” he says. In desperation he approaches bumbling community college biology professor Albert (Broderick).
The odd couple perform some decidedly non-kosher experiments—most notably with a stolen pig named Harold—to establish a timeline for Rivkah’s decay and put Shmuel’s mind to rest.
“Who doesn’t like bacon?” asks Albert, placing foot firmly in mouth.
First time feature director Shawn Snyder has crafted an offbeat but appealing comedy that offers up laughs as well as bittersweet sensitivity. In what is essentially a two hander, Snyder amps up the absurdity by allowing his actors to be both unlikeable and yet strangely compelling. Röhrig and Broderick are a perfectly matched, if morbid, odd couple.
Röhrig plays Shmuel as a sympathetic character but one who pushes the boundaries of behaviour as he follows through in his tormented obsession. He finds the tragedy and the humour in the situation, equal parts comic exasperation, stubbornness and heartache.
Broderick, often decked out in his ex-wife’s lacy housecoat, is a delight. His Albert has let life pass him by. Hapless and hopeless, he seizes on this experience as a way to reawaken his love of science and life. Broderick is deadpan perfection.
“To Dust” is a one-joke movie but it is a good joke brought to life by two actors who make their extreme characters relatable and recognizable.
While “Disobedience” asks the same kind of questions that many romantic dramas have asked. Can love survive over years? Is any love forbidden? Does love change everything? The new Rachel Weisz and Rachel McAdams film, simply asks them in a different way.
Based on the novel by Naomi Alderman, “Disobedience” is the story of two women at odds with their upbringing. Rachel Weisz is Ronit, a New York based photographer, notified of her rabbi father’s (Anton Lesser) death. Travelling to London and the Orthodox Jewish area of her birth, she is met by derision by her former community. Most shun her, seeing her abandonment of their way of life as
rejection of their traditions. Everyone, that is, except childhood friends Dovid (Alessandro Nivola), who will soon take over as rabbi, and his wife Esti (Rachel McAdams). As Ronit settles her father’s estate the reason for her self-imposed exile becomes clear as she and Esti revive their teenage romance.
Chilean director Sebastian Lelio sets the stage, expertly creating the insular world of the British Orthodox Jewish enclave. Drawing us into a world ruled by cultural and spiritual customs he provides the background we need to contextualize the patriarchal world Ronit re-enters. That rich portrait gives Weisz and McAdams a canvas on which to paint two very different but very effective performances.
Both are strong-willed people who have spent years suppressing their feelings. Weisz’s Ronit straddles two worlds, her new life in America versus her old life in Britain, and with that comes introspection. Revisiting her past brings up a wellspring of emotions not just for Esti but for the life she left behind. Weisz embodies that push and pull with an internal performance that speaks volumes.
McAdams approaches Esti as a person frustrated with, but not trapped in, her ordered life. Ronit offers a kind of freedom and connection she rarely feels. It’s tremendous work, overlapping Esti’s devotedness with her natural inclinations.
“Disobedience” made the festival rounds where it was noted for its sex scenes but it is so much more than that. It’s a slow-burning character-driven study of passion that avoids judging its characters or the traditions it depicts.
How to describe director Nicolas Winding Refn’s “The Neon Demon”? You could use five dollar words like transgressive and hallucinatory. Or make comparisons to “Mulholland Drive” and “The Eyes of Laura Mars,” but none of that really comes close to capturing the nervy essence of what Refn attempts here.
Elle Fanning stars as the underage, somewhat naive model Jessie. An orphaned teen from a small town who’s been in Los Angeles “for like, a minute” scores a shoot with a hot shot photographer (Desmond Harrington). “She has that thing,” says her only friend, a makeup artist named Ruby (Jena Malone). Jessie’s fresh-faced appeal opens doors in the industry—Alessandro Nivola plays a big time designer who gives her the closing spot in his show even though its her first trip down a runway—but earns the ire of established models like Sarah and Gigi (Abbey Lee and Bella Heathcote) who she is replacing. “What does it feel like to walk into a room and it’s like the middle of winter and you’re the sun?” Sarah asks the new girl.
Refn, who also wrote the script, has pulled off something quite extraordinary here. He has made a movie that visually mirrors his subject. Setting the film in the vacuous world of fashion allows him to indulge his filmic sense while mirroring his visual ideas in the script. When the designer says, “True beauty is the highest currency we have,” he may have been talking about the fashion biz or Refn’s style of composing gorgeous images that accompany the film’s performances. I say accompany because there is a chilly disconnect between the story, which, true to its subject, is kind of hollow, and striking images on the screen. To reinforce that notion Refn even has a character say, “Beauty isn’t everything, it’s the only thing.”
A gutsy late movie turn toward necrophilia, horror and violence, while heart pounding and jarring, mostly draws the film even further away from any kind of traditional structure, although does graphically display how far people will go to capture the true essence of beauty.
“The Neon Demon” is a tone poem. The cast is terrific, especially Fanning in a role that requires steely determination and vulnerability, Keanu Reeves fans might get a kick out of seeing him go down ‘n dirty as a scummy motel manager and fans of “Mad Men” will enjoy seeing Christina Hendricks back at work, but this is a film more about feel than narrative and is the very definition of a “not for everyone” movie.
If Coco Chanel was a superhero, “Coco Avant Chanel” would be called her origin story. Here we learn about the how the superstar designer went from orphan to unhappily kept woman to finding her secret weapon—the little black dress. Of course she’d never wear something as gaudy as a logo on her chest, she exemplified understated class, but she was a wonder woman who created an empire in a business primarily run by men.
As the title suggests this is the story of Gabrielle “Coco” Chanel before the fame. When we first meet her she is being shunted off to an orphanage by an uncaring father. Raised in austerity she becomes a seamstress who moonlights as a nightclub singer. While working at the club she enters into a long affair with an older playboy aristocrat named Étienne Balsan (Benoît Poelvoorde). He provides for her and elevates her social status ever so slightly—mistresses were tolerated in turn-of-the-century French society, but not celebrated—but their relationship falls apart when she meets a young English businessman who would become the love of her life, Arthur ‘Boy’ Capel (Alessandro Nivola).
Like “X-Men Origins: Wolverine” or “Iron Man” this movie gives us the background we need to fully understand how she went from zero to hero except that the hero part is barely examined. We follow Chanel just up to the point at which she becomes a major fashion force. Director Anne Fontaine is more interested in the events that drove the designer to revolutionize the fashion industry rather than the revolution itself.
Audrey Tautou, the waifish French star of “Amélie” and “The DaVinci Code,” is an inspired choice to play the iron willed designer. She’s been criticized for looking dour throughout much of the film, but I prefer to see her look as one of steely determination as she navigates the turbulent waters of Chanel’s private life. The charismatic Tautou—who bears an uncanny resemblance to the designer—slowly develops the character, showing the struggle Chanel faced to enter society, to be accepted and have her work taken seriously. It’s nicely rounded performance that breathes life into a person who, despite placing on Time Magazine’s 100 most influential people of the 20th century, is a mystery to the average viewer.
“Coco Avant Chanel” works both as a bio pic (which could easily be followed by a sequel detailing her life at the top of the fashion field) and a romantic melodrama. Anchored by a terrific performance from Tautou and luscious production design it’s an inspiring rags to riches tale.